


Song of Songs

by blakefancier



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blakefancier/pseuds/blakefancier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blake likes his lovers all dressed up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song of Songs

Avon was angry when you mentioned it, so you put it out of your head. It is a surprise when a week later he shows you the clothes and makeup.

You watched him dress. The underwear first, white lace panties smoothed and adjusted to hold him. Then the bra-- there is a slight grumbling as he comments on the difficulty of hooking it closed. You grab his hands before he can reach for the stockings and shake your head.

Avon smiles and pulls away. He steps into the dress: white silk with a low neck and thin straps. It falls to just above his knees.

He looks at you through lowered lashes and presents his back. You run a finger down his spine, feel him shiver, then grasp the zipper and pull it up slowly.

"You'll have to show me how." He gestures to the makeup. "Don't make me into a whore. Unless that is what you desire."

It isn't.

When you're done, the only things you've used are the kohl and the lipstick. You make a note to buy him something a shade less flamboyant. The lipstick is too dark for his skin tone.

You perch on the edge of the bed and watch him. He runs his tongue over his lips and hums. He knows what you want: coy, shy...innocent. You wonder if he'll give it to you.

Then he sits on your lap, places his head on your shoulder. He smells like jasmine.

You put your hand on his knee and slide it up under the dress.

He gasps as you allow the lace to scratch your palm. His lips press and suck the side of your neck.

You play with him, stroking his thighs, running your fingers along the edge of the panties. He moans and presses himself against you.

"Stand up," you say.

He does and you kneel at his feet.

"Take them off." Your voice is hoarse.

He hitches the dress up slowly. "You take them off."

Your hands shake but you steady them enough so that it isn't difficult to pull the panties off. Slowly you lower them down his thighs, his knees--your eyes follow--you let the fabric caress his calves before pooling at his feet.

When you look up, his cock is hard and red, the tip glistens. You taste the wetness with your tongue. You want him to fuck you, to feel the cock stretch you and the silk glide against your skin. And after he's come and those dark eyes are sleepy you want to fuck that bright red mouth until it's swollen and smeared.

He smiles at you and touches your cheek.

"Come on," he says and leads you to the bed. "Come on."

Later, much later, after the dress is in shreds and he's curled around a pillow, you take in his disheveled appearance. The kohl is smudged, his mouth denuded of unnatural color, and his body is damp and warm. You kiss his shoulder and wrap yourself around him.

He murmurs in his sleep and presses back against you.


End file.
